


War Is Declared

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, punk!merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 19:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12824775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: Harry's roommate will be the death of him. In more ways than one.





	War Is Declared

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: They're at uni and Harry is a posh little thing for the first time independently on his own and Merlin is his punk roommate/next door neighbor who will surely be the death of him and Harry is constantly torn between suing and kissing the guy
> 
> I have taken liberties with many things. Please forgive me.

It was little wonder Harry’s knock went unheard considering the racket issuing from his roommate’s bedroom. 

Or perhaps he was just being ignored.

He rapped again, harder, pounding his irritation into the thin wood.

That got a reaction. The door opened to reveal the unimpressed face of the young Scot known only as Merlin. Incongruously, he was holding a screwdriver, and for a startled moment Harry thought he meant to use it as a weapon. Much to his relief, the man merely raised an eyebrow.

“D’ye want something?”

He was shirtless, but still wearing his leather jacket, which was frankly ridiculous. And rather distracting. Harry forced his gaze to remain on the kohl rimmed hazel eyes.

“Would you mind awfully turning that noise down just a fraction? I have an assignment to finish.”

He received a look that implied he must be mad. Whether for wanting the music’s volume lowered or for spending his evening studying he wasn’t sure. He remained resolute, unwavering under the force of the glare, until one shoulder hitched in a shrug and the door was slammed shut in his face.

To be fair, the music _was_ turned down, but Merlin may have taken the suggestion of a _fraction_ just a little too literally. Harry sighed and returned to his books. Maybe he would eventually develop an immunity to irritating music.

If the past few weeks of warfare were any indication, it didn’t seem likely.

* * * *

Harry had _not_ expected, upon his return home, to be assaulted by the deafening sounds of The Clash and the eye-watering sight of a room full of questionably attired young people.

If he were being honest, he wouldn’t have sworn this particular cacophony could be attributed to The Clash—it all sounded much the same to him—but he _was_ certain that the thick fug of smoke was not all of tobacco origin.

“Merlin!”

He shouldered his way through the crowd of bodies, ignoring the comments thrown at his back, until he located his roommate. Merlin was sprawled across the sofa, long, tartan-clad legs stretched along its length, Doc Martens propped up on the opposite arm. The vest he wore was sleeveless, and Harry was momentarily diverted by his bare arms and the computer programming manual they held aloft, until someone jostled into his back and he remembered that he was angry.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Oh, Harry.” At least he had the decency to look mildly guilty. “I thought you were out for the night.”

“Change of plans.” The words hissed out through clenched teeth. “Who are all these people?”

“Friends,” Merlin said vaguely. “People who needed somewhere to go since they seem to be unwelcome most everywhere else.”

And there was good reason why, Harry thought unkindly. But he didn't have the energy for a battle. He was tired and just wanted peace and quiet after his disaster of a day.

“You’re welcome to join us.”

“Thank you, no,” Harry declined stiffly, turned on his heel and stormed off, dodging a Mohawked couple attempting to devour each other, and sealed himself in the relative sanctuary of his bedroom.

A little less than an hour later, blessed silence descended on their rooms. Curious, Harry risked emerging from his bedroom and found their tiny space empty of unwanted visitors. Stranger still, the ear-splitting record had been replaced by the soft sounds of a guitar.

The door to Merlin’s room was ajar, just enough of a gap for Harry to see the bed and the man sat cross-legged upon it, a cigarette dangling between his lips, guitar cradled in his lap. Harry was knocking on the doorjamb before he’d even made the decision to do so.

Merlin acknowledged him with the briefest of glances and continued to play. Harry didn’t recognise the song, but it was a world away from The Clash. Gentle and melodic, almost melancholic.

Realising he was just standing there in the doorway like a fool, Harry finally found his voice. “Where did everybody go?”

“Home.” Merlin’s gaze returned to Harry, guarded. “I suppose you want me to stop playing?”

“No,” Harry said quickly. _Too_ quickly. Merlin looked surprised, his eyebrows shooting up, and then he must have seen something in Harry’s face because the corner of his mouth ticked up in a smirk. Harry schooled his expression back to bland disinterest. “It’s a vast improvement on that usual shit you listen to.”

“If you’re just going to insult my taste in music, you can fuck off.” There was no heat behind the words, just a playful teasing. “Unless there’s something you wanted?”

Harry forced his tongue not to supply the answer that immediately came to mind and instead managed, “I was going to make a cup of tea and wondered if you’d like one.”

Merlin was still smirking, damn him. “Aye, that’d be grand, thank you.”

* * * *

Harry scowled down at the page of scribbled numbers in front of him. He had to get his statistics sorted, but all he’d managed was to turn it all into a jumbled, nonsensical mess. Mathematics had always been his downfall.

He was so busy fuming at his calculator that he didn’t notice Merlin coming up behind him, not until he felt warm breath tickle his ear. He almost leapt from his seat.

“Here.” Merlin leaned closer, touching his finger to a row of digits scrawled amongst Harry’s workings.

“What?” Harry stammered intelligently.

“You’ve got your data sets muddled up for a start,” he slid his finger down the paper, “and is this supposed to be the standard deviation? You’re calculating it incorrectly.”

Harry turned to look at Merlin in astonishment, belatedly realising it was a mistake to do so when he found his face mere inches from Merlin’s.

“You know where I've gone wrong?”

Merlin arched a brow, indignant. “Did you think I was here just to party and drink?”

Harry felt his ears burn with guilty embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to imply…”

With a dismissive huff of breath that gusted over Harry’s cheek, Merlin shrugged it off and straightened back to his full height.

“I could run it through my computer for you.”

The offer took Harry by surprise. “That contraption in your room?”

Merlin looked amused at that. “Aye.”

And so Harry followed Merlin into his bedroom, and for the first time really took in the extent of the machine and its components. It had claimed all of Merlin’s desk and most of his floor, which considering the size of the room only left just enough space for the bed.

“Where on Earth did you get this?”

“I’ve been working on it for a while now. I purchase the parts whenever I can afford them.”

“You mean to say you built this yourself?”

“I’m not just a pretty face.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Evidently not.”

He watched as Merlin tapped away at the keyboard, inputting his data and entering commands. He explained what he was doing as he went along, but Harry became hopelessly lost after the first sentence and merely let the Scottish brogue wash over him.

Half an hour later, he was presented with a printed sheet, his data and results set out neatly—and correctly.

“This is perfect, thank you.”

Merlin smiled then, soft and genuine and with none of the menace that usually infused his smiles.

“My pleasure.”

* * * *

By the time Harry had roused from sleep, the phone had stopped ringing. He heard Merlin’s voice in the living area and assumed he had answered the call, quicker to the mark than Harry as he’d more than likely been awake fiddling with his computer.

Curious by nature, Harry wrapped himself in his dressing gown and went out to see if it was anything important. Midnight phone calls never heralded anything good.

What he found was Merlin hunched on the sofa, looking oddly vulnerable dressed in a jumper instead of his typical leather and with his usually artfully arranged shock of dark hair a dishevelled mess. Worse still was the look of stunned shock on his face.

“Everything okay?”

Merlin blinked several times, raised dazed eyes to find Harry. “My da’s dead.”

“Oh.” Harry felt a sharp stab of sympathy and sat down beside Merlin, driven by an overwhelming urge to provide comfort. “I’m so sorry.”

Merlin shook has head. “Don’t be. He was a bigoted bastard who couldn’t abide the thought of his _disgusting queer_ of a son living under his roof. I hadn’t spoken to him in years.”

There came the sudden realisation that perhaps the two of them weren’t so different after all, that despite their starts in life being poles apart, they were now treading the same path. And Harry understood why Merlin had been left so shaken by the news.

“But he was still your dad.”

“Aye, he was.”

In Harry’s experience, Merlin was an expert at holding his emotions in check, in presenting only the face he wanted people to see, but at that moment Harry could see every conflicting feeling written plain in his eyes.

“Will you attend the funeral?”

“I don’t know.” Merlin’s hands, normally so still and sure, flexed and curled against his thighs, the only physical outlet of his inner turmoil. Harry wanted to reach out and take them, hold them tight. He didn’t, thinking it too forward. “I think I want to. For my ma if nothing else.”

“I’ll accompany you, if you’d like.” Harry could provide moral support, whatever Merlin needed.

Merlin looked at him in surprise, eyes bright as he processed the offer. “Maybe?”

“Just let me know.”

Merlin managed a watery but sincere smile. “Thank you.”

Decorum be damned, Harry clasped Merlin on the shoulder, squeezed, providing whatever strength he could, and when Merlin leant into the touch, Harry gathered him into a loose embrace.

Merlin didn’t cry, but they sat there awhile, Harry holding Merlin against his side, Merlin’s head resting against his shoulder.

* * * *

“You’re late.”

Harry had put in some extra time at the library but couldn’t for the life of him recall an appointment he may have missed. “Late for what?”

“Dinner.”

“You made me dinner?”

“Aye. Now sit down before it goes cold.”

Harry did as he was told, mildly astounded, hanging his coat up before taking a seat at their little table. “What’s this in aid of?”

“It’s an apology.” Merlin set down a plate for them both and sat down, motioning for Harry to dig in. The table was in proportion to the rest of their rooms, and as such their knees bumped together, legs tangling into an arrangement that was not altogether uncomfortable. “I’ve not been a very considerate roommate, and I’m sorry. I thought you were just another of those posh fuckers who don’t think someone like me belongs here.”

“Of course you belong here,” Harry insisted. “You’re fucking brilliant! Look at that computer of yours. I don’t understand that in the slightest and yet you’ve built it from scratch.”

Ever modest, Merlin blushed a little at the praise, then gave a soft chuckle. “And I don’t understand those dead bugs you seem to love so much.”

There wasn’t much Harry could say to that. He laughed, buoyed by the mischievous glint in Merlin’s eyes as he teased and the food, which was really rather good. He polished the lot off, and when he made to rise and clear the table, Merlin waved him back down and collected the dirty plates himself.

Harry relented with a smile. “I suppose we’ve both been guilty of misjudging each other.”

“Aye, we have.” Merlin put the plates in the sink and returned for their glasses. “But you’re a decent man, Harry Hart.”

“You’re not so bad yourself. Fashion sense notwithstanding.”

“Oh, you don’t like my taste in clothes?” Glasses in hand, Merlin straightened and turned toward Harry, a gleam in his eye. “Could’ve fooled me.”

With Harry still seated, his eyeline was on a level with Merlin’s crotch, his ridiculous tight trousers leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Harry rolled his eyes, hoping desperately his blush was undetectable.

When they’d tidied—Harry having given in and insisted upon drying the dishes—Merlin bade him goodnight and set off for his room.

“Wait.”

Merlin turned back, waiting expectantly for Harry to continue. Harry, meanwhile, floundered a moment as he realised he had indeed spoken aloud and was now required to elaborate.

Battling down his trepidation, the very much alive butterflies fluttering in his stomach, and approached Merlin with all the confidence he could muster.

“What do you say we don’t call it a night just yet?”

Merlin’s gaze was searching, hesitant as he sought confirmation he had understood correctly. Perhaps he feared a trick, or maybe just his own misunderstanding. To dispel all uncertainty, Harry reached out and ghosted his fingers over the back of Merlin’s hand, felt the minute tremble as Merlin swallowed and weighed the situation, making his choice with an endearingly shy nod.

Then, suddenly, the smirk returned, pleasure and promise all in one. “Aye, sounds good to me.”

Harry grinned brightly, heart leaping as he tangled their fingers together and tugged Merlin toward his bedroom.

If this was the truce, Harry didn’t regret the war.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from 'London Calling' by The Clash. In a wonderful coincidence, it came on the radio when I was driving to work.


End file.
